Speak Whale To Me
by swatkat
Summary: Male whales sing to each other. HouseWilson, slash, 2975 words


**Title:** Speak Whale To Me  
**Fandom:** _House, M.D_  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG  
**Words:** 2975  
**A/N:** Set sometime around 3.19, 'Act Your Age'. Title and plot contrivances inspired by this NY Times article. Many, many, many thanks to **pwcorgigirl** for looking through this.  
**Summary:** Male whales sing to each other.

-

'You know, male whales sing to each other.'

Wilson sighs and draws his cards closer to his chest. Another hospital benefit, another poker game, and so of course House is using the opportunity to annoy and distract Wilson in every way imaginable. So far, it's working rather well.

'You gonna call?' he says, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice, even though it doesn't go well with his poker face.

'They do,' House continues, solemn. 'It's a fact. Earlier everyone thought they were mating calls – '

'Imagine that.'

' – but turns out female whales pay very little attention to their song. It's a guy thing. Male bonding, and all that,' House finishes, waggling his eyebrows at Wilson. He blows an obnoxious puff off his cigar, right on Wilson's face. It's a habit Wilson despises.

Which is _why_ he's doing it now, of course, as if that's somehow supposed to divert Wilson's attention from the fact that House is craning his neck and doing his best to use his height advantage and catch a glimpse of Wilson's cards.

'Fascinating,' Wilson says dryly. 'You gonna call or not, House?'

It is possible that the whale anecdote is meant to be some sort of a meta-comment on his life that he's supposed to figure out by himself, but it's Friday night and he's had a couple of drinks and he's definitely _not_ going to sweat over what House may or may not be saying about his marital life or his sexuality.

'_Hmm_,' House says, making an exaggerated show of thinking hard.

Wilson's pretty sure he has his move – his several moves – planned. The trick is not to give in, he reminds himself, and looks around for a passing waiter. He could use another drink.

A lot of familiar faces tonight, Wilson thinks, watching Brown in an animated conversation with a pretty young intern, glass in hand. Figures. There's enough misery and sorrow in the hospital to last its employees a lifetime (or five), and most people wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity to wear nice clothes and hit on other people, all in the name of charity.

Most people except House, who's in it for the free booze and gossip fodder.

In the distance he spots Cuddy, magnificent in red and deep in conversation with Atherton from Princeton General. She rejected all his offers to play with them tonight. Which is a pity, Wilson thinks looking over at House, still 'thinking'.

He could definitely use another drink.

-

It's late when Wilson stumbles back into the hotel, pleasantly drunk and content with the state of his world. He did end up losing the damn game, and he's sure House cheated, but somehow he can't muster enough ire as he thinks of House: smirking, saying, 'Don't sulk, Jimmy. I'll let you win some other time.'

He grins at the receptionist, not caring if it makes him look stupid and well, drunk.

On his way up, he fiddles with the buttons in the elevator, wondering what will happen if he pulls the emergency lever. He fiddles with the buttons of his shirt while undressing. He's restless, he realizes, so he switches on the TV, flipping through a million advertisements to settle on National Geographic, where they're showing something on the coral reefs in Papua and New Guinea.

The camera pans through the Pacific: blue, so very blue, startlingly blue against the horizon. The host stands on the deck of the tiny sailboat, the wind at her back and her hair whipping around her face.

It's been a while since he's been anywhere near the sea.

The camera moves under water, coral against blue-green and scores of many-hued fish, red and orange and yellow.

Wilson dozes off after a while. Just before he's about to fall asleep, in that twilight between alertness and dreaming, he thinks of the sea: gentle, undulating motion beneath his feet; the endless waves; the fresh sea smell and salt against his lips.

-

Wilson wakes to horrible, screeching sounds.

He blinks and looks around in panic before he realizes that he fell asleep with the television on, where they're currently showing something on… vampire bats? He fishes out the remote from underneath the covers and quickly switches it off. He doesn't need to know.

A glance at his watch tells him it's well past nine: he came in late and he slept like a log, and he feels… pretty good, actually. Not hung-over. Well rested.

He eats at the restaurant downstairs, very resolutely _not_ thinking about how he could have been eating healthier food if only he'd had a kitchen to cook it in, and heads for the hospital. It's Saturday, which means he can get some leftover paperwork done in peace and quiet. House never sets foot inside the hospital on Saturdays unless he has a dying patient to attend to.

He has barely started with the staff evaluation reports when the glass door attached to the balcony opens with a crash. Wilson knows that crash. But why would…

'Get up. We're going out.' House breezes in, brandishing his cane like a dangerous weapon.

Wilson groans. 'It's Saturday! Why are you even here?'

'I missed you,' House says in an appropriately melodramatic tone. And then, impatient: 'Will you get up now?'

'No! I realize this may be a difficult concept for you to grasp, House, but some of us actually have work to do,' Wilson points out.

'It's Saturday,' House says, twirling his cane. 'No one except pathetic workaholics with no personal life works on Saturdays. And Cuddy. Though I suppose all of those apply to her as well.'

Wilson sighs. House won't listen to reason. Obviously. Something has to give, and Wilson likes his sanity just the way it is.

'I'm not getting on your bike,' he says, putting down his pen.

'Scaredy cat,' says House with a smirk.

-

'Where are we going?' Wilson asks once they're inside the car.

'Straight, for now.'

'That's not a place, that's a direction. Where are we going?' Wilson says, even as he turns the ignition on.

'Don't worry your pretty little head over it. I'll tell you where to turn,' House says.

'House, I'm – '

House switches on the radio.

-

'Are we going towards Camden? Why are we going towards Camden?' Wilson ventures to ask some time later.

House merely turns the volume up.

-

'I suppose it's too much to expect that you'll tell me why I drove all the way from Princeton to Camden when I could have been at work, finishing my staff evaluation reports,' Wilson observes once they pull into Camden.

'Left,' House says.

'Right. Forget I asked.'

-

'Adventure Aquarium,' Wilson says slowly, taking in the sprawling structure before him. The row of flags on top flutter cheerfully in the breeze; the giant white dome gleams in the sun. In front of them, the river is sparkling and postcard-blue. It's a beautiful day, perfect for a holiday, or maybe a picnic outdoors and he's here with House -

It's surreal.

'How very… educational of you,' he tells House, failing to come up with anything more sarcastic than that.

'There's no end to learning,' House agrees solemnly.

A few minutes later, they're inside a brightly lit hall with large fish tanks. It's a weekend, and the place is teeming with visitors: eager tourists, camera in hand, children of all ages and their parents.

House bulldozes through the crowd to stand in front of a tank, and says, after a minute's observation, 'Does that look like a whale to you?'

Wilson blinks, completely lost, before recalling the previous night's poker game anecdote.

'It's a fish,' he says. 'A…,' Wilson reads the nameplate, 'green sawfish. Which looks nothing like a whale, and in fact, I'm pretty sure _are_ no whales in this aquarium. Is this about the singing thing?'

House ignores him.

A minute later they are in front of another exhibit – a sandtiger shark, Wilson discovers from the nameplate, and House says, pointing his cane, 'Does _that_ look like a whale to you?'

'Yes, House, very like a whale,' Wilson says, rolling his eyes.

In the next hour, they wander along various galleries where they meet jellyfish and giant spider crabs and fish of all possible colors and varieties and Wilson is charmed, he has to admit, in spite of himself.

Wilson wonders about House's leg, and has his suspicions confirmed when House pauses in front of the giant pacific octopus to pop a Vicodin. He scowls at a small bespectacled boy observing them with profound interest, lollypop in hand, and announces, 'I'm hungry.' He swallows another Vicodin. 

Wilson clenches his fist, and says, 'I think there's a restaurant somewhere.'

It's dusk when they finally head back home. 'I won't say I didn't enjoy myself,' Wilson says, 'and I suppose I should thank you for that, but will you please clarify this sudden obsession with whales? Is there something I need to know about? Have you joined some underground whale-worshipping cult?'

'M thinking of getting a pet,' House says. 'You know Steve, he gets lonely.'

-

Monday morning. Wilson has a meeting with Cuddy at eleven. They go over clinical trials in her office. Wilson makes a strong case for the bisphosphonate trial; Cuddy thinks it's too early to tell. He's armed with statistics and data and so is she. They argue. There's coffee. And as these things go, they're talking about other things (House) and smiling, and it's good, Wilson thinks, to see Cuddy relax.

It's good that she allows him this.

He's still chuckling over her account of an encounter with a donor and his socialite fiancé at the benefit when he spies the CD on her desk, lying carelessly on top of a pile of folders.

'Songs of the Humpback Whale?'

Cuddy rolls her eyes. 'House left it this morning. It's a gift, apparently.'

'Of course he did,' Wilson says, not exactly surprised given the flavor of the month. He racks his brain, trying to recall if it's her birthday that's occasioned this. He's pretty sure it isn't, because he always remembers birthdays, it was some time in… January? June? July? He would have bought her a present, or maybe taken her out to - 

'Whales?' says Cuddy, interrupting his train of thought.

'It's his new thing,' Wilson says.

Cuddy raises an eyebrow. Wilson shrugs in response.

'Did you listen to it?' Wilson asks. He's not sure why it feels like an extremely intrusive question, and decides not to dwell on it.

'I've heard it before, actually,' Cuddy smiles. 'My father bought a copy when it first came out.'

'It's beautiful,' Wilson says.

'It is,' Cuddy nods. Her smile turns fond. Nostalgic. A little melancholy, perhaps.

They sit like that for a moment, quietly, coffee cups in hand. Wilson thinks of the sea: the wind at his back and salt on his lips.

-

It's past lunch hour when he finally emerges out of Cuddy's office. He stops by the clinic to look for House, but one look from Nurse Previn tells him all he needs to know.

Wilson heads for the cafeteria.

House, he discovers, isn't in the cafeteria, either. House's fellows, however, are huddled together on a table, in the middle of what looks like a very serious conversation, very much oblivious to the rest of the world. Cameron, Wilson notes, is looking rather… _unhappy_. Chase looks baffled; Foreman exasperated.

It is of course purely by chance that the only free table Wilson manages to find is right behind the one where the fellows happen to be currently sitting. And it is equally by chance that he overhears Foreman saying, 'Whales?'

Wilson stops chewing his salad. He's sitting with his back to them, but Wilson doesn't need to _see_ his face to know the expression he's currently wearing.

'He said it was a gift,' Cameron says.

'He's messing with your mind,' Chase says in a low, comforting voice. Wilson wonders if he's holding her hand. 'And besides, I've heard it. It's really nice.'

'Since when does House do nice?' Cameron snaps. 

'_Whales_?' Foreman says again.

-

House is in his office, legs stretched out in that familiar posture on his table, humming along with his iPod. Wilson waits until he takes out his earplugs, and says, 'I hear you've been feeling generous lately.'

'If this is your way of asking me to return all the money you've lent me, the answer's no. I realize this is the way of your people, but my people believe in compassion and forgiveness,' House says.

'You're an atheist,' Wilson points out.

'I'm converting. I've seen the error of my ways and I'm surrendering myself to the mercy of Our Lord.'

'Or…?'

House picks up his ball and balances it on his palm. Throws it against the wall and catches it again, with perfect dexterity. 'I'm testing a theory,' he says.

-

Wilson finds himself alternately composing the draft for his e-mail to Mayo regarding their bisphosphonate trial and googling whales.

He snaps the second browser window shut when he ends up in a site concerning whale porn.

The bisphosphonate trial in Mayo is very similar to the one they've been running here, except that they've been using ibandronate.

House seldom gives incorrect information when it comes to these things. He enjoys collecting these little factoids and bombarding people with them at the right opportunity.

Wilson gives in and opens Google again.

Turns out male humpback whales really do sing to each other.

-

The next morning is spent in an extraordinarily tedious board meeting. Simpson drones on and on and Wilson is forced to entertain himself by playing What Would House Say and sneaking glances at Cuddy, looking exquisite in her purple jacket. At one point, he catches her eye and her lips curve downward for a split second, which is her way of saying that she feels his pain.

'I thought he'd never stop,' Wilson says once the meeting's over and they're on their way to the clinic, safely out of earshot.

'Yes, _god_,' says Cuddy, rolling her eyes. Wilson's answering grin is cut short when she says, businesslike again, 'Is there a reason why I don't have your staff evaluation reports yet?'

'Actually, I – '

'I assume you received my memo?'

'Yes. Both of them,' Wilson mutters. 'Would you believe if I told you that it's all House's fault?'

Cuddy glares. Which might be her way of saying that it always is and therefore no longer counts as a valid excuse.

'Right. You'll have them by this evening,' Wilson says.

He slinks back to his office after that, resigned to his fate.

That's when he spots the CD on his desk, artfully placed beside his Zen garden. It's the same as the one he saw on Cuddy's desk the day before: the now-familiar blue cover art and the words 'Songs of the Humpback Whale' emblazoned on top.

Oh.

Any doubts regarding the mysterious benefactor's identity is eliminated by the fact that it has Wilson's initials (**J.E.W**) on its cover. There's no mistaking that scrawl.

Not that he _had_ any doubts to begin with.

Well.

It's an odd feeling, Wilson thinks, when things that have been troubling you for a while suddenly make sense. It's like solving a puzzle, putting all the symptoms together and making the correct diagnosis.

He carefully puts the CD away, and calls Brown, asking him to cancel his appointments for the afternoon. Takes a deep breath and concentrates on his reports.

Halfway through his evaluation of O' Leary's performance, Wilson realizes that he's smiling.

-

House has already left by the time Wilson is finally done with his paperwork. He deposits them with Cuddy, who acknowledges him with a nod and smile and returns to the intimidating stack of documents in front of her.

Nurse Hall waves at him on his way out and he smiles at her, a genuine, warm smile, nothing plastic about it for once. He pretends not to have noticed her blush.

-

House looks uncomfortable when Wilson turns up at his place carrying beer, as though nothing's happened.

He doesn't ask, however, and they settle on his couch. House puts on _The L-Word._ Wilson gets a feeling he isn't watching much, what with the furtive glances he keeps shooting at Wilson every two minutes. Wilson decides to wait till the second commercial break, at least.

At the very first break, however, Wilson blurts the line he has been rehearsing in his head since afternoon, 'Did you know male whales sing to each other?' 

Cards on the table.

'I've heard,' House says. The expression on his face is unreadable.

'It's funny,' Wilson says. 'Scientists used to think that they were mating calls, but female whales appear to pay very little attention to it.'

'Is that so?' House narrows his eyes, as though in challenge.

Wilson puts down his bottle on the coffee table. Picks up the remote and switches the television off.

In the ensuing silence, he can hear his own heart beat unsteadily against his chest. House watches him with wary eyes. His mouth feels dry.

'It's a fact,' Wilson says. House gives a short huff that might be laughter or derision or quite possibly both and he's impossibly close, and he feels, Wilson thinks, a little unsteady. Like he's on rough waters, and it's a good thing he has a pair of fairly experienced (if somewhat rusty) sea legs.

His palm prickles when he cups House's cheek. House's lips are rough, chapped and chewed upon at places, and warm. Warmer still, as he opens his mouth, _finally_, allowing him in.

House tastes of beer and bitterness and salt against his lips. With his free hand Wilson grasps House's shoulder for anchor, and closes his eyes.

---


End file.
